The Evidence Suggests
by PyroLily
Summary: Holmes,' said Watson, 'I'm going to marry Mary and there's nothing you can do about it.' Eventual slash and plenty of bromantic goodness
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Sherlock Holmes or anything associated, no matter how much I would like to! Eventual slash, so if that offends you are more than welcome to stop reading at the little black bar.

* * *

"Holmes," said Watson, "I am going to marry Mary. And there's nothing you can do about it."

Sherlock Holmes blinked at his friend. "Is that a fact?"

"Most certainly."

Holmes paused, sucking idly on the end of his pipe. "No."

"No what?"

"No, it is not a fact. It is an assumption, and an incorrect one at that. There is plenty I could do about your pending marriage to Miss Mary if I had either the inclination or the imagination. As I have both it is not only possible but _probable _that I am capable of jeopardizing your marriage." He blew a puff of smoke in his friend's face. "… so there."

Watson heaved an exasperated sigh. "_Please _Holmes," he said. "Just leave this alone. For me."

"For you? Nonsense. I'm only doing this _for you_, you know."

"How could you possibly be doing this for my sake?" Watson demanded.

"You don't really want to marry Mary."

"Of _course _I want to marry Mary! What the hell do you think I'm standing here fighting with you for?"

"Fun?"

"You – " said Watson in tones of disbelief, " – are completely out of your mind!"

Their conversation was briefly interrupted by a loud _thud _as Gladstone suddenly stiffened and keeled over. Watson threw his hands in the air.

"Fantastic. You've killed the dog again."

"Not 'the' dog, my dog. You left, remember? It's my dog, my rooms, my beds, my closets, my…" Holmes struggled to think of another amenity that was now his. "Bathtub. And I have not _killed _the dog. I have never _killed _the dog." Watson raised an eyebrow. "Well. Maybe once. But he got better. However, at present I was merely testing out the effect of a slow acting poison."

"A new case?" Watson couldn't help himself; his interest was piqued.

"Indeed." Holmes glanced up at him. "Perhaps you could be of assistance?"

The corners of Watson's mouth twitched in an attempt to hide a smile. "Perhaps," he conceded.

"Splendid. Now, let us pretend I am the victim. Name – Marianne Dodson, age – approximately twenty-two years. I lay asleep on bed A." Holmes lay down on the ground to demonstrate. "Beside me sleep my sisters in beds B and C. I go to sleep in apparently perfect health. In the morning I am dead. The door is still locked, one window is open."

"Cause of death?"

"Strangulation."

"One would have to infer that Marianne was killed by a man coming through the open window."

"That is the logical conclusion. However, the window mentioned was three stories up. What's more, Marianne's bed was farthest from the window; it was highly unlikely that she would have woken up and seen the intruder, thus bringing about her death in that fashion. If the killer entered through the window it implies that he entered the room intent on murdering Marianne. And even then, it seems likely that her sisters would have woken during the struggle that would have occurred when Marianne woke – as she undoubtedly would, by all accounts the girl was a light sleeper – and felt the stranger's hands around her neck. No, there is a far simpler explanation."

"The sisters?"

"Ah1" said Holmes. "You have hit on it. Evidence seems to imply that Marianne was murdered by one of her two sisters. Now the youngest, Emily, takes a nightly sleeping draught which puts her in a state near comatose. Her mother and the maid confirm she took it the night of the crime. So the culprit seems to be the middle sister, Adela."

"So case closed?"

"Not quite. Marianne was by far the stoutest of her sisters. There is no doubt that she would have been able to fight Adela off. So how did she manage it?"

"How _did _she manage it Holmes?" asked Watson. "You seem rather keen not to tell me."

"Let us return to 11 o'clock the night of the crime," said Holmes, sitting up abruptly. "In attendance for dinner are Marianne, Mr. and Mrs. Dodson, her sisters Emily and Adela, and her fiancé, John Williams."

"Yes, well, she wasn't murdered at dinner, was she?"

"Observe. You are now Marianne."

"Why am I Marianne?"

"I am Mr. Williams," said Holmes, ignoring his friend and putting on a ridiculously deep voice. "Thank you for the lovely night, Marianne."

"Holmes, this is ridiculous."

"Watson, you will never learn anything if you constantly refuse opportunities!"

"All right." Watson gave the shorter man a poisonous glare. "Oh, Mr. Williams," he said in a trilling falsetto. "I'm so glad you enjoyed yourself."

"Now I'm going to kiss you good-night," announced Holmes.

Watson instinctively tried to back away. "Now –"

"How many times do I have to tell you that this is a _practical _demonstration? You, my friend, are not being very practical." And before Watson could say another word of protest, he leaned forward and planted a kiss on the other man's lips. He pulled back wearing a rather self-satisfied smile. "There. It is accomplished."

"What is?" asked Watson, clearly confused.

"The murder. The slow acting poison currently affecting _my _dog was administered to Miss Marianne by means of her fiance's lips. I smeared a salve of the paralysis inducing poison on my own lips, and passed it on to you just as John Williams did that night. Of course, he too was eventually affected, but was able to sleep off the effects without fear of murder. Meanwhile, the unfortunate Marianne was killed by her sister Adela, Williams' true lover. And that," concluded Holmes, tapping Watson lightly on the nose. "Is what comes of engagement."

"You're spouting nonsense again," said Watson, turning away. Then something seemed to occur to him. "Holmes?"

"Mm?"

"How long does it take that poison to act?"

"About an hour."

"So in an hour you and I are both going to be paralyzed."

Holmes gave a slight cough. "Er… yes. That seems about ri"ght."

"For how long?"

'You know, I'm not entirely sure."

"Holmes, I'm supposed to be meeting Mary for dinner!"

"How unfortunate."

"You're unbelievable!"

"I've been told so, yes."

"So you and I are going to be stuck here for _God knows how long_, just staring at the wall??"

Holmes frowned in consideration. "Yes, it would seem that is the case. Well, might as well make the most of it," he said cheerfully, sitting down on the edge of his bed. "I'm going to get some sleep."

"And what do you propose I do?" demanded Watson.

"Go and meet Mary, if you must," said Holmes, shutting his eyes.

"You don't think she'll noticed when I become _slightly paralyzed_?"

"Well, there's only the one bed," said Holmes, his eyes still closed. "I sold yours to the man who runs the butcher's shop down the road. Nice chap. Ears like cauliflowers."

Watson rolled his eyes. "Oh, scoot over."

"I will not."

Watson shoved his friend toward the wall and climbed into the bed beside him. "Now we wait?" he asked.

"Precisely," said Holmes, smiling to himself.

* * *

Reviews are love!


	2. Chapter 2

Still do not own Sherlock Holmes. Thanks to all the amazing reviewers who left all the amazing reviews!! I send you mental hugs and puppies.

I do plan to try and drag this out a bit and make it as painful as possible for the two of them... in the least angsty way possible of course!

And yes, Hulabaloo, there was a Monty Python reference! Thanks for spotting :)

* * *

"John!"

Sherlock Holmes winced as a piercing voice broke through the reverie of his formerly peaceful sleep. What was going on? Where was he? He peered through the darkness – oh, he was in bed. A puzzled frown crossed his face. Who was in bed with him? Only faintly alarmed (it wouldn't have been the first time something like this had happened to him), he tentatively poked the back of whoever it was beside him. The person made a small, irritated noise and rolled over. It was Watson.

"_John_!" the shrill cry came again, this time accompanied by a rattle of the doorknob.

Well, that explained that.

He gave Watson's shoulder a shake. The other man made another noise of protest, pulling the blankets up over his head. Holmes sighed. Was it wrong that a man so tall, fierce-looking, and violent could be so damn adorable? He pulled the blanket aside and leaned forward, so close that his lips almost brushed his friend's ear. "Your fiancé calls," he whispered.

"Mary!" Watson sat straight up, whacking his head against the slanted ceiling. "…ow…" He whirled on Holmes. "What's going on? Where am I?"

"_John_?? Is that you in there?" Another rattle.

"You're in my bed," answered Holmes, propping his head up with his elbow and flashing Watson what he privately considered his most disarming smile.

"How –"

"You were helping me solve a case, and volunteered to play the part of the victim which resulted in the both of us becoming paralyzed."

"I don't remember _volunteering _– "

"_JOHN_!"

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you do something about that?"

Watson had the grace to look embarrassed. "Well, yes, I suppose…" he sighed, and climbed stiffly out of the bed, straightening his wrinkled jacket as he walked toward the door. "I'm coming, Mary dear," he said in a voice that could only have been described, Holmes decided, as less than enthusiastic. Of course, that may have had something to do with the six hours of paralysis Watson had endured as opposed to his feelings about his bride-to-be… there was not enough evidence to draw a satisfactory conclusion. Yet.

There was a clinking sound as Watson fumbled with the key, then a squeak of hinges as the door opened, and then…

"Three…two…" Holmes whispered to himself, his back to the open door.

"_Where have you been? _I've been worried sick about you!" Then the crinkling of muslin and a _whump _as the lady launched herself into Watson's arms.

"…One."

"There, there, Mary dear," said Watson in what was clearly meant to be a comforting voice. "I'm sorry about dinner."

"But where were you?" she demanded again, removing her face from where it had been firmly pressed against the front of his jacket.

"I was helping Holmes out with a case and we, er, lost track of the time," Watson explained.

Mary's eyes shot to Holmes, who lay motionless in bed. "He doesn't look as though he's working on a case. He looks asleep."

"He's not asleep," said Watson, glaring at Holmes's prone form. "He's only pretending to avoid having to say anything."

At this point Holmes decided there was no point pretending he wasn't listening, and rolled over to face them. He flashed Mary another smile, only slightly less disarming then the one he had previously given Watson. However, Miss Mary did not smile back, instead bestowing upon Holmes one of the coldest glares he had ever seen. And that was saying something. Holmes found himself reflecting once again how extraordinarily unpleasant he found the future Mrs. Watson. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was exactly about her that bothered him – the shrillness of her voice perhaps; it would be like being married to a teakettle. Anyhow, the long and short of the matter was that he simply did not like her.

"Mr. Holmes," said Mary, in a voice that suggested she was just as fond of the detective as he was of her, "Do you normally investigate murder while lying in bed?"

"Not normally," answered Holmes amiably. "Occasionally. But as it happens, this morning I was not, in fact, investigating murder in bed. I was merely sleeping."

"Sleeping," repeated Mary suspiciously.

"As was Doctor Watson," said Holmes innocently, giving his friend a neat little salute.

"But John said – "

"Don't worry, the good doctor was being as honest as ever. Watson and I _were _investigating a murder. I solved it – with his assistance – though we unfortunately ended up suffering from a mild case of paralysis as a result."

"Paralysis?" echoed Mary, her voice once more approaching an octave normally limited to opera stars and steam trains.

" – mild case!" repeated Watson, rapidly moving his arms in an effort to prove how very un-paralyzed he was. His fiancé gave him a dubious look.

"Well, there was nothing else to be done," continued Holmes with a sigh, "But to wait until the poison had run its course. So we retired to bed."

"Both of you?" asked Mary.

"Well, naturally I couldn't let him sleep on the floor! Nasty hard things, floors. Plus the dog might have sat on him or something."

Mary's gaze was far too shrewd for Holmes's liking. He was beginning to feel quite uncomfortable when she looked away, grabbing Watson's arm in a distinctly possessive manner. "Well, as our dinner plans seem to have fallen through, care to join me for an early breakfast?"

Watson's eyes flashed briefly to Holmes, then back to Mary. "Of course," he said, detaching her from his arm and straightening up. "Er…Good day, Holmes," he said to his friend. "I'll see you soon, no doubt."

"No doubt," agreed Holmes, struck by how much more _courteous _and formal the doctor behaved when around his bride-to-be. Watson tipped his hat politely, and they were gone.

*

"I," said Holmes to himself, several hours and several bottles of … (well, he wasn't quite sure what it was, for all he knew it might have been shoe polish) later, "…strongly dislike that woman." He was sitting at his desk, unidentifiable alcoholic substance in one hand and a pen at the other, wearing the same rumpled clothes from the day before with his smoking jacket draped over his shoulder. From somewhere in the desk he produced a yellowed piece of parchment; this he smoothed out, dipped the pen in ink, and began to write, mumbling the words to himself as he did so.

"There is only one way to think of everything and that is the correct way. Everything has an answer and therefore a solution, one just has to go about finding it. Logic leads one to said solution, and it is logical to assume that John Watson should not marry…Mary." Holmes laughed to himself. "Marry Mary… as I was saying, to prove one's conclusion one must acquire evidence…" He dropped the pen, eyes wide, staring off into the distance (or at the wall, it was hard to say). "Evidence," he said. "I need to acquire evidence."

He jumped to his feet, almost falling over, but managed to catch himself on the chair and stand up again. "To acquire evidence," he continued, in an almost feverish frenzy, "I need to … to…" How odd. The room was spinning. "To…" His eyes lit on his bed. "To sleep," he finished, staggering three paces and falling face down on the mattress. _Hmm_, he thought, beginning to fall into unconsciousness. _Pillow still smells like Watson.

* * *

_

Reviews are love!


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry the update took so long! School and all that.

I still (sadly) own nothing.

Thanks to everyone for the wonderful reviews i have been receiving! They really make my day!!

* * *

To put it simply, Holmes's plan was not.

Simple, that is. But it was a plan, and a good one at that, so as soon as he recovered from his rather violent hangover he set about putting it into effect.

"STAGE ONE: Careful Observation." Holmes paused. "Well?" Gladstone stared back at him, his canine face unreadable. "Well, I think its …catchy," said Holmes. "Now, Careful Observation will require me to mask what I am doing. Neither Watson, nor (God forbid) his little wife must have any idea. It's a good thing I am a _master _of subtlety," he said fondly, strumming a dramatic chord on his violin.

Gladstone put his paws over his eyes.

*

The restaurant was packed with people, most of them the richest and most important in London. At the bar an actress flirted with a well-known architect, while two tables away a prominent member of parliament dined with his mistress. It wasn't that the place was gaudy or over-expensive; it was simply out of the way. Plus, the food was amazing. Those who knew of it described it as the hidden gem of London.

"…and a bottle of cognac," said Watson, nodding to the waiter.

"Darling, this place is absolutely divine," said Mary. "But how did you find it?"

He laughed despite himself. "Tracking down a particular posh murderer. Wanted for strangling young women of questionable character. Scotland Yard was having a hell of a time… anyway, me and Holmes were on his tail and he ran in here, and Holmes managed to tie him up using a ball of string, some cheesecloth, and a soup spoon. The chef was so grateful to us for catching the man that after the police showed up he served us a seven course meal, on the house."

Mary smiled. There was something in the smile Watson couldn't quite read. "It sounds terribly exciting."

"Oh, it was." Watson leaned back in his chair as their food started to arrive. A man in a bright white waistcoat poured them each a glass of brandy.

"To us," said Watson, raising his glass.

"Indeed," said Mary, a strange glint in her eyes. "Oh, John, I can hardly wait. Now that you've moved in, I feel like we should set a date, don't you?"

"Ah…yes." He furrowed his brow, thinking. "Yes. I think that would be for the best."

"But of course," said Mary. "How about mid-February?"

The crease in Watson's brow became more pronounced. "But that's barely three weeks away. Don't you think that's – rushing things?"

"Don't you want to marry me?" demanded Mary, studying him over the top of her glass.

"What? Of course I want to marry you!" said Watson sincerely. "I wouldn't have proposed if I hadn't. February it is, then." He drained the rest of his glass. "May I just say that you look ravishing tonight?" His hand grasped hers across the table. "I couldn't wish for a prettier bride."

"More brandy, sir?" The waiter was at their table again.

"Ah – yes," said Watson, barely glancing up.

"You are just married?" asked the waiter with polite curiosity, filling up both their glasses.

"No," said Watson absentmindedly.

We're recently engaged, actually," said Mary, smiling at the waiter. He gave her an encouraging nod. "Planning the wedding, and all that."

"Ah! That must be it. It's wonderful to see young people in love. You two, especially, have a sort of …" The waiter gestured vaguely, searching for the right word. "…glow. Yes, you especially, my dear, shine like _la lune_." Mary giggled at his French, clearly charmed. "Much too pretty a girl for you, my good man," said the waiter jovially to Watson. "Run away with me, madame?" He laughed. "Of course, I only joke. I'll leave the happy couple alone."

"You're too kind," said Mary, as he gave them a nod and left. Watson had finally looked up properly, and was staring after the waiter with a strange intensity.

"What's wrong?" asked Mary, noticing her fiancé's clouded expression.

"One minute," said Watson, abruptly getting to his feet and walking hastily off.

"John?" Mary demanded, but he was out of earshot.

Blood boiling with anger, Watson stalked towards the kitchens, rounding a corner and catching sight of their waiter.

"Sir?" he barely had time to ask before Watson had slammed him up against a wall.

"What are you _doing_, Holmes?" demanded Watson.

The waiter's assumed manner melted, his face splitting into a wide grin. "So you could tell it was me?"

"You think a mustache, an accent and a bit of makeup could fool me?" hissed Watson furiously. "So you're – what is it, stalking me now? Is the idea of me actually being happy so abhorrent to you? Misery does more than love company with you Holmes, it grabs people, drags them down, and holds them there. It's – it's pathetic."

Holmes grinned, apparently unaffected by his friend's harsh words. "The little wife didn't recognize me, did she?"

"_She _has not lived with you for half a decade! I daresay I could always recognize you, no matter what clothes, powder, or extra hair you cake yourself in."

"Care to place a wager on that?"

"_No_. I care to return to dinner, thank you very much," said Watson, giving Holmes a shake and turning to walk away, then stopped and wheeled on his friends. "You still haven't explained what you're doing here."

"I'm trying to prove a hypothesis."

"What hypothesis?"

"That you would be horribly unhappy married to Mary."

Watson groaned. "Not _this _again. I'm horribly unhappy here – with you!"

"Only because you've just come from dinner with Miss Mary. Her negative energy has gotten to you. Would you like to here my conclusion? Of course, nothing is conclusive yet, I'll need more data…"

"NO." Watson's face was suddenly right up in Holmes'. "No more collecting data. If I see you following me again, I _will _shoot you."

"With what gun?" Holmes asked, grinning. Watson checked his pockets, and found that he had indeed forgotten his gun.

"I will _stab _you," he corrected himself, brandishing his cane.

"The range of that sword, wielded by your arm, is no more than about 1.5 meters, maximum. Odds are, you won't even see me, let alone stab me."

"I'm leaving, Holmes."

"I'm not stopping you."

Their eyes locked, Watson's dark with anger, Holmes's full of affable politeness. "See what I mean?" Holmes said softly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Watson said gruffly, tossing his cane from hand to hand.

"You're angry."

"And whose fault is that?"

"You're unhappy."

"I AM NOT UNHAPPY!" Watson roared. Holmes cocked one eyebrow, as Watson backed away, breathing heavily.

"I'm going to leave now."

"You mentioned that before."

Watson straightened his coat, turned to go, then hesitated. "I – I'm sorry. I lost my temper, Holmes."

"Entirely understandable."

"You _are _interfering with my marriage."

"Yes. Yes I am. Would you like to go to breakfast tomorrow?"

Watson heaved a sigh. "All right."

"Brilliant. I'll see you around nine."

"Nine," agreed Watson. "Good night." He left hurriedly, not looking back this time. Holmes studied his retreating figure. There was no doubt about it – Watson was dreading his upcoming marriage. If what he had overheard in his waiter disguise had merely suggested it, Watson's attitude just then had certainly confirmed it. Leaving the restaurant uniform in the kitchen, Holmes pulled on his hat and jacket and headed for home.

*

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock Holmes reclined at his desk, hat draped over his face. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson?"

"There's a man here to see you. He says it's urgent."

Holmes heaved a sigh. Normally he would have her send him away without a second thought, but he was feeling restless tonight. "Show him in."

Seconds later, a tall man in a grey suit was ushered into the room. Holmes sat up, studying him intently. He was thin, almost skeletally so, with shiny grey eyes and a flat, snake-like face.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," he said in a quiet voice. "My name is Granger. I am here on the behalf of my master, Monsieur Laroche. He has a proposition for you."

* * *

Reviews are love!


End file.
